A few painfully annoying minutes later, they have the mattress maneuvered onto the floor in front of the fire. Clint makes a quick round, closing all the doors into the room, and checking the closets for spare blankets. Far away from the fireplace, his breath mists in the cold. Must be below zero outside.

He brings back a pile of 'em, smelling faintly of mothballs. Unfolding them, one at a time, and piling them on the bed.

"Big spoon or little spoon?" he asks.